


Faux-pas

by BonGarland



Category: Avengers, Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor - Fandom, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bromance, Bucky smiling unwillingly, Darcy fucking things up, F/M, Gen, Sibling Relationship, mission, unlikely partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonGarland/pseuds/BonGarland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The assassin known as the Winter Soldier has been retrained and shaped to fit SHIELD's ranks, while Darcy Lewis is now a fledgling agent. When a mission arises that pairs the two of them together, who's the bigger danger? Guest cameo of Tasertricks hints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faux-pas

**Author's Note:**

> Random idea that had been floating in my head for weeks and weeks...Actually, since I first saw TWS. The idea of a Darcy/Bucky friendship was too strong to pass up, so this little excerpt came about.

"I know what you're thinking," piped up a shrill voice from the back of the SUV, and the soldier risked a brief glance in the rearview mirror to confirm who had been assigned his monitor for this mission. Suppressing a groan, he spotted the booted feet propped against surveillance equipment in the modified backseat, eyes traveling up the layers of winter clothes to rest on the Woolen Hat of The Day, today a vibrant emerald green, probably an homage to the boyfriend who was thankfully not present.

"That I'm not qualified for this stuff yet, yadda yadda," the speaker continued, shifting her resting boots as she idly hit a couple of keys on the touch-screen monitor before her. "But I so am, and everyone else was busy today anyways and they all said you're the best anyways so your monitor really isn't gonna make much of a difference and it might have meant fudging the books a bit for today's log but…Darcy Lewis, at your service, big guy!" She cut a terrible salute at him in the rearview mirror, raising a latte to her lips and sucking at it noisily as her attention returned to her own work. Probably trolling youtube and inciting the Jamaican-American community again in a debate about the Rastafarian religion, or whatever it was Lewis did in her spare time.

Stifling a sigh, the soldier started the car, grateful the ignition was on the side of his flesh hand, or he might have ripped the steering column out of place in annoyance. She would be dropped at a pre-set classified recon location, but…This intern had a reputation as being a loud, annoying trouble magnet, besides the girlfriend of none other than Loki Laufeyson, otherwise known as the Only One Other Than Bucky Barnes to command an armed escort wherever he went within SHIELD's premises.

He supposed that part was a compliment to his deadliness, or something. Probably.

Muttering a mild curse to himself in Russian and hoping Romanoff wasn't on comm monitoring today – she'd called him out the other day on calling Fury "nothing more than an eyepatched gorilla", prompting an inner debate on whether to take up Romanian or not – the soldier pulled the nondescript SUV out of the SHIELD parking garage. Romanoff probably knew Romanian, too, come to think of it.

Deciding on an infantile form of entertainment, he suppressed a smile when a sudden turn sent Lewis lurching from side to side in her seat. She managed to somehow not spill a drop of latte, though, but when she made a pouting expression, shaking the coffee cup upside down, he realized she'd just chugged it that quickly. An over-caffeinated, wired talking machine was loose in the vehicle.

The plan was simple, he told himself silently, blinking slowly and breathing deeply at a stoplight. Drop Lewis at the monitoring center masquerading as a hipster internet café, then proceed to the mission site, at a nondescript saloon on the south side. Tonight was the initiation ceremony of several new recruits of an anti-SHIELD terror cell in New York; it had been uncovered that their main cover was a weekly meeting as an "NRA support club", where they scouted for new members to participate in small acts of domestic terrorism.

It had started with graffiti, property damage; and quickly escalated, in one case resulting in the kidnapping and ransom of a left-wing councilman's daughter, all in the name of freedom from democratic tyranny or some such nonsense. The soldier didn't pay much attention; bullies were bullies, where he was concerned, and anyone grabbing an innocent twelve year-old girl off the street deserved what Winter would bring. He wasn't yet fully brought to heel, as far as SHIELD was concerned, and this was one of his first solo missions, but the soldier had regained a sense of right and wrong, aided by Cap's steadfast companionship. The metal hand tightened on the steering wheel in anticipation of tonight's agenda, of which he knew little; initiates followed orders and knew little else of the group's business until fully inducted.

Distracted by a flash of green in the back seat, he pushed away thoughts of what tonight would bring, focusing on the moment. It was a de-stressing technique he'd had to practice often, or face the crippling memories of the past and what he'd done.

Darcy certainly looked the part of hipster, he thought, cocking an eyebrow in the mirror at her barely-tamed waves jammed underneath the ridiculous hat, some galaxy-patterned leggings visible beneath the boots and lengthy winter coat, glasses askew on her nose. She'd preserve the integrity of SHIELD's reconnaissance team's cover, he thought, pulling the SUV around the back of the café and into a covered alleyway to deposit the former intern. She hopped out with a grin, slinging her equipment-loaded messenger bag across her chest and marching up to the driver's side window, staring until he rolled it down with a push of a button.

"How much do I owe ya?" She asked with a smile, leaning her head from side to side to see if she'd provoked a reaction. Knowing she wouldn't let it go until he had, the soldier attempted a weak, crooked grin of his own in response, eliciting a clap from Darcy, who whirled and headed towards the back door of the café. "Ciao, Jon Snow!"

It was her pet name for him, some pop culture reference from a television program that was immensely popular these days, he'd been assured. When he asked to watch it, Steve's eyes had flitted from side to side, a blush rapidly rising on his cheeks, and he'd muttered that they didn't get the channel. Anthony Stark had immediately protested, claiming that the tower received no fewer than 2,500 channels, and in HD, no less; the rant was curiously interrupted by the smoke alarm going off, an automatic sprinkler drenching the inventor mid-word. The issue had not been raised again, but the soldier allowed the nickname, enjoying the lightness with which the girl regarded his codename and history. Laufeyson was a lucky man – he'd found a gem in someone who could overlook the faults of the two of them.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She disappeared into the back door, and he put the SUV into gear, heading towards the seedier end of town. The car would likely arouse suspicion – he was supposed to be a working-class man, down on his luck and angry at the institution of America, etcetera etcetera, and so he stashed it in a tree-shaded spot of a nearby park, walking the rest of the way.

It was a quiet, still night, the bite of December's approach just beginning to taint the air of November evenings. The soldier's boots crunched loudly on dry, chilled leaves, and he felt a twitch of discomfort at the obviousness of civilian behaviors; he'd typically be skirting the perimeter, dressed down and minimally equipped in pursuit of stealth, but tonight he was a normal man, bundled with a jacket buttoned to his neck and a scarf covering what parts of his face the longish hair didn't shelter, trudging along the sidewalk to a rundown saloon.

The establishment in question was aptly named the One-Winged Duck, a crumbling awning announcing the place in painted letters to the public. The soldier thumped up the stairs, removing his hands from his pockets and almost reflexively rubbing them together for warmth, something he'd seen Steve do occasionally, but didn't work for him, bionic as the one was… He had apparently arrived just in time to join a line of a few other men who were being admitted one at a time into the murky depths of the building.

"Berettas or Glocks?" The man at the door asked, and the soldier managed to croak out the syllables to "Beretta" in a voice scarcely employed, except for these weekly meetings. He was waved inside, to join the unusually-subdued atmosphere. Lights were dimmed, and everyone was wearing a black sort of cloak, one of which he was handed as he passed into the main dining room.

How cheesy and cultish, he thought with a frown and a sigh, slipping the fabric over his head after removing his coat. Even he had seen a few movies involving fraternity initiation.

And cold, if they were to be wandering about outside on this night, he noted, shivering through the strange satin material as a breeze ripped through, signaling the entrance of another man.

Candles were the only form of illumination tonight, their flames flickering and throwing ghoulish shadows across the visages of all the cloaked men present, glinting off the metal digits that were the sole visible part of his arm. It had been part of his "in" to the group; a former army veteran who'd lost his arm in the line of duty and was forced to bear a prosthetic; it was true enough, and the best covers held a great measure of truth.

He was one of the last to join the roughly circular formation of "club members", as Dave Gunn, as he had dubbed himself as the leader, stepped forward after two more men had arrived, welcoming them all.

"You know our values," he hissed, stalking around the edges of the circle, peering briefly at each hooded face. "You know what we stand for, how important it is. So you know we must make a bang, a true bang in every sense of the word. Let them know we are not going away, and that they cannot predict where we will strike next." He paused for dramatic effect, taking a swig from a flash he carried, and the soldier caught a whiff of strong whiskey. A lovely combination among overzealous firearm fans. The soldier's hand twitched towards his sidearm reflexively, before he remember it wasn't there, shed and laying in the passenger seat of the SUV.

"Tonight we strike at the weakest of them, of stupid SHIELD, to make the strongest point," the man droned on, slurring slightly. "Does everyone know that computer café on the west end? Awful neon green façade out front?"

Aw, hell.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Darcy yawned so widely her jaw cracked, and she peeked around the alcove she was closeted in, eyeing the line at the espresso bar of the café. One triple-shot latte from the crappy SHIELD cafeteria had not been enough, she decided, squinting at her computer screen before shrugging and removing her headset, deciding the world wouldn't end if she missed three minutes of boring audio material.

As she sauntered towards the end of the line, she missed the frantic intake of breath that crackled into her headset, as the cult leader's words resounded in the small speakers.

"Mocha, or latte," the young woman mused, tapping a finger to her chin as she stared up at the chalk-scrawled board. "Mocha…or…latte…" Finally deciding on another latte, she placed an order for a raspberry vanilla concoction, jerked a thumb at her chosen seat, and wandered off to await the barista delivering it to her seat. Swinging the heavy noise-cancelling headphones back onto her head, she tapped a key on the laptop to return its screen to wakefulness, trying to recapture the flow of secondhand conversation coming through the crackly line. Bucky's wire feed sometimes came through very static-clouded, probably because of That Hair. The scraggly art major look was a major plus in the area of disguises, though, so SHIELD let him keep it.

She caught a few words that sounded like directions, then the chatter dwindled, Bucky's breathing the only thing audible – and it was heavier and more ragged than usual. Pulling down the mouthpiece, Darcy cleared her throat before switching it on, nodding her thanks to the pretty blonde barista who delivered the espresso to her elbow. "Bucky?" She questioned, seeing nothing but a subtly shifting darkness on her screen. They were on the move, in the dark, but she knew nothing beyond that.

Receiving no response, she scowled at the screen, sipping her latte with head propped on arm, her other hand scrawling listlessly on the table's surface before her. She might have heard a door slam, but it was difficult to tell. After minutes of scratchy non-communication, there was a sudden loud noise in her ear, eliciting a yelp from Darcy, clapping a hand to her ear and wincing, and all audio was lost. Then the visual on her screen fizzled out, from the moving darkness of nighttime, to the distinct black void of broadcast lost.

"Shit," Darcy enunciated, drawing the attention of several café patrons for the second time in as many minutes. Frantically resetting the surveillance program, unplugging and replugging in her headphones, and toggling her laptop screen on and off, Darcy was panicking at the loss of communication. Brain going numb with dread, she turned her head to idly stare out at the darkened parking lot, and a pair of headlights pulling into it. And then another, and another. Just as her brain started to wonder why four cars had the sudden inspiration for cappuccinos at eight p.m. on a Tuesday evening, the front door burst open with a kick, introducing several cloaked and hooded men sporting what looked like heavy firearms.

SHIELD was gonna kill her. If these guys didn't.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had situated himself in the first vehicle of the impromptu caravan, once he'd gathered the plans of the evening, but he had no way of knowing if it would be enough.

The plan, as they'd been told, was to take the café's patrons hostage, and lock the whole place down. It was after dark, and there weren't likely to be as many hostages as the group would hope for, but the Soldier wasn't going to point out the flaws in the plan, not when he was busy worrying about the junior SHIELD agent in the building.

Each man had been armed, after they'd recited some stupid "oath" that had probably been concocted from the editorial section of a hunting magazine. The Soldier hadn't heard any audible sign that Darcy Lewis had heard the plan, and that worried him as they walked outside and down the street. Metal hand clenching and unclenching at his side, he darted glances at the men walking around him.

And then Darcy Lewis' screech came through the comm in his ear, loud enough for those around him to hear. They all paused. "What was that?" One asked suspiciously, reaching for his weapon as he glanced around. They were all trigger-happy alcoholics, and it was a wonder that they'd pulled off any of the events they'd been credited for on the news.

With a subtle scratching of his ear, the Soldier dislodged the comm from his ear, surreptitiously crunching it underfoot, and then doing the same with the microscopic camera that passed as a clip-on earring. It was a bit unnecessary, but Lewis had suspected they'd give the initiates something different to wear, and that threw out the plan to attach a camera to the zipper of his jacket. Score one for her.

Now completely bug-free, the Soldier was free to think furiously as they clambered into separate vehicles, only just snagging a seat in the black truck of the boss Dave.

He was quietly, uncaringly muttering to himself nonstop in Russian as the vehicles pulled up to the café; perhaps his companions thought it merely a sign of an extreme gun lover or something, but they didn't mention it.

All plans went out the window when they burst inside, and Darcy Lewis' stricken expression stood out in the thin crowd occupying the café this cold evening. "Grab 'em, boys!" Dave roared, firing a couple overzealous shots into the plaster of the ceiling. Making a snap decision, the soldier headed straight for her as they all chose hostages, sighing inwardly as he grabbed hold of her waist and pinned her back to his chest, lazily gesturing his weapon in her direction. He was uncomfortable with aiming it at her head unless he had to, but he couldn't say why.

"You!" Dave yelled at the paralyzed barista behind the espresso bar, shaking hands held in the air. "Call 911. Let 'em know exactly what's going on, and to send a news crew!"

"Merde," the Soldier exhaled into Darcy's hair, switching to French out of frustration. She, for her part, was doing an admirable job at playing the annoyed, put-upon hostage, once she seemed to have realized who had a hold of her. She squirmed slightly, muttering under her own breath about having one too many lattes to be withstanding a hostage situation, and he coughed to hide a laugh.

This was ludicrous, he told himself, watching the others wave the rest of the hostages to the ground, ordering them to lay facedown and lace their hands behind their heads. When they sent him a puzzled glance, he laughed roughly, conjuring up some excuse that he liked this one, and he'd keep her to look good for the cameras. It seemed to placate them, and he was left with the girl pinned to him as the others fanned out to scan the dark night outside.

Another point for the idiocy of their plan; they couldn't see out, but the police would be able to see in. Not only that, but the Soldier was feeling an idiot for himself; why had he been given this assignment? They would all be caught tonight, and if he were revealed on television…

As if on the same mental track, Darcy squirmed in his grip, wrinkling her nose as something appeared to occur to her. Turning her head slightly, she muttered something in his direction, blushing slightly.

Under the pretense of renewing his grip, he leaned close to her, hopefully looking menacing. "What?" He managed to hiss, and Darcy bit her lip. "Isortofinventedthismission?" She let out in a jumbled exhalation, and the Soldier's grip tightened of its own accord.

"What," he muttered, and the fear in her eyes was legitimate for a moment. Realizing his grip had tightened to the likely point of pain, he glanced around the room, made sure the others were absorbed in their yelling at the hostages, and loosened his grip.

Darcy sniffled. "I wanted a mission," she mumbled. "Faked something up in the books 'cause you're the only one who wouldn't realize…Steve woulda booted me out of the van…" It was slightly incoherent, but the Soldier thought he now had the gist of it. Resisting the urge to beat himself about the head with his own gun, he inhaled unsteadily, pulling her to a nearby window and peering out.

Police lights were finally approaching, and sirens were audible even over the clicking noises of ammo being checked, and hostages being snapped at to be still.

Dave had gotten a loudspeaker from somewhere, and was kicking out a window in the upstairs loft that served as more seating for customers. "We have demands!" He yelled, dragging out the last word and convincing the Soldier that he'd been at his flask again.

Of all the missions. He was at risk of exposure because the girl had wanted some action and notoriety…And her boyfriend would have wind of this soon, and would likely kill him.

As if on cue, the loud tones of the reinstated Agent Coulson echoed in from outside. "Let the hostages go," he called in that near-monotone he always employed unless speaking to Captain America.

The Soldier cringed mentally, fearing the punishments SHIELD might bestow on him; would they refreeze him, punitively? Exhile him to some bunker in a country where he wouldn't see Steve? As he evaluated the options, his thoughts were interrupted by several gunshots from across the room.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Darcy blinked in surprise as men in dark cloaks stormed the café, sporting shiny guns and barking orders. It was a bit surreal, and the ridiculous cloaks had her gobstopped until one grabbed her roughly around the waist, latching her to him in an uncomfortably tight hold. She struggled briefly, until the unnatural chilliness of the grip around her clicked. Bucky.

The arm was alternately a relief, at knowing who her captor was and that he wouldn't hurt her, and discomfort, at the tight grip of a bionic arm that likely couldn't gauge if its hold was actually hurting her or not. The fragility of her ribcage was a blinking red alarm in her brain at the moment.

She'd wanted attention at SHIELD, and she'd definitely get it now, the sole hostage who was set aside with a gun trained directly on her. He seemed to be doing his best not to drill the muzzle into her temple, though, and for that she was grateful. Her plan was now seriously botched, though, and she'd probably screwed Bucky over too. Hopefully he wouldn't get in trouble.

Oh, shit. After Coulson's reprimand, one of the men had laughed loudly, firing his weapon in a lazy semicircle around the huddle that was the hostages on the floor. None of them were struck, but the frenzy outside increased in volume, and Bucky shifted his grip on her, nervously, she thought.

A hazy shimmer at the corner of her eye caught her attention, and Darcy turned just her head, in time to spot another cloaked being joining the group. A flash of gold gleamed at the sleeve of the cloak before the satin was tugged down again, and she sagged in Bucky's grip. She was sooo in trouble.

An expletive in a foreign language at her ear proved her "captor" had spotted who had joined the ranks of the gunmen, and as Darcy was edged away from the window, she watched the hand of the newcomer whirl in a strange little gesture. A clicking noise followed, and then a loud clank as a nearby gunman's ammo casing randomly fell to the floor.

"What the-" he started, words drowned out by the same thing happening to everyone's gun. They all lunged for their ammo, but the casings, as if drawn by a magnet, skittered across the floor towards the man with a cloak slightly different from the rest.

Dave's holler from the alcove above preceded his own ammo sailing down from the rafters, and joining the others in a stack at the man's feet. There was a collective gasp of confusion, and then with a grand theatrical gesture, the cloak was flung back.

"One illusion I could not hold for long," Loki Laufeyson muttered, annoyed, sweeping a hand through his hair to tame it, then pausing all the men mid-lunge as they tried to jump him, with a lazy flick of one wrist. The hostages all craned their necks around, peeking up, sobs of relief breaking the tense silence.

"Yes, yes, you can all leave, mmhmm," Loki drawled, crossing the room quickly. "They are apprehended, Agents," he muttered to his wrist, and Darcy spotted a small comm link strapped on like a watch.

"Give her here, if you please," Loki was saying to Bucky, who still had a tight grip around her. "The situation is quite under control." With one last mutter in what sounded like Russian now, Darcy was let go, Loki quickly scooping her up in both arms with a nasty scowl at Bucky. The trickster was putting on a dramatic, damsel-rescuing show, and Darcy rolled her eyes before frowning apologetically at the winter soldier.

"I don't know what you were doing here tonight, Barnes, but you'll pay for this," Loki hissed, and then they were gone, popped back to headquarters with a whisper of magic.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He supposed it was a godsend, to make a poor joke of an even poorer situation, to have beings like Loki and Thor around for situations like this. Laufeyson had taken what would typically be a grave standoff, with innocent hostages involved, and reduced it to a bunch of unarmed, ridiculously-garbed redneck men staring at each other helplessly while their movements were paralyzed.

What was he even around for? He wondered, shedding the ridiculous cloak and flashing his arm as identification to the SHIELD agents who had moved in to apprehend the now-mobile suspects. Dave was dragged downstairs, ranting about the excessive force of blundering liberals and their pet demigods, or something along those lines, and the dozen handcuffed men were shoved into the backs of SHIELD vans, likely not to see the light of day for a long while.

"I suppose you've got a good excuse for spontaneously appearing in the midst of a hostage standoff, Barnes," Coulson muttered with a glance at his watch, waving the soldier to leave before him. He had shown more kindness than the rest during rehabilitation and retraining, probably because of his obsessive love for Captain America, but Barnes appreciated being given the benefit of the doubt this time.

"Lewis," he muttered hoarsely, and Coulson quickly stifled the grin that cut across his face. He gave a quick cough that sounded suspiciously like the words "not surprised", and then straightened his expression. "This was a serious situation tonight, and I expect a full debriefing tonight," he said, waving the Soldier into the passenger seat of Coulson's own SUV. "Now, where's our rogue company vehicle parked?"

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Darcy had run out of colorful phrases of responsibility avoidance, and now was down to the bare truth. "I wanted to complete a cool mission sorta on my own," she mumbled into a paper cup of terrible SHIELD breakroom coffee, eyes flicking up to Coulson's in a silent plea for sympathy.

Loki's constant presence spared her the brunt of most anger and punishment, but he himself was visibly perturbed that she'd had a gun to her head tonight.

"But it wasn't Bucky's fault," she emphasized all through her debriefing. "Don't punish him, it was my fault, I tricked him into thinking it was an authorized covert assignment to be kept quiet…" If Laufeyson was annoyed at the obvious sibling-level affection she held for the traumatized assassin, he kept it muffled, in favor of blatant anger at the danger Darcy had been in.

"Keep him away from her," he'd said through gritted teeth, stepping into the hallway with Coulson. "He'll get her killed, probably would have tonight if I hadn't interceded-"

"I don't need to do you any favors, Loki, or be told that Darcy Lewis ought to be kept safe," Coulson snapped back, striding off down the hall and leaving the god standing with his jaw working silently.

In the end, Darcy was assigned to deskwork for two months – more precisely, recordkeeping for Tony Stark, which was no easy feat. The man's constant verbal stream was more than enough for even the most skilled of rapid note-takers, and Darcy soon had everyone's sympathy.

The Soldier was given Natasha Romanoff as mission partner for the next two months as punishment, and it was certainly punishment enough, having not only his complaints turned into scathing returned insults, but his Russian grammar criticized.

A week after the incident, Darcy was flat-out running behind Tony Stark, who was on a bender about a new update to Jarvis' hardware, and randomly walking the halls at SHIELD, spouting his accomplishments to anyone who would listen; the Soldier was exiting the gym after an intense sparring session with Clint Barton. The girl locked eyes with the Soldier for a split-second, waving timidly as she dashed after Stark.

"Lady Arya," he called after her, and everyone in the hallway paused at the sound of his voice. But Darcy turned with a face-splitting grin, and all was well between SHIELD's resident Super-Soldier-Assassin and Bumbling-Agent-In-Training.


End file.
